


Boggart

by kompulsivelyKapricious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boggart, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Harry Potter - Freeform, Lucius Malfoy - Freeform, Other, Riddikulus Charm, Third Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kompulsivelyKapricious/pseuds/kompulsivelyKapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your turn, Malfoy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boggart

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the idea isn't mine. I got the idea from a post on Tumblr, and decided to make it a thing cause I couldn't find the thing I wanted it to be anywhere else. I hope it is widely enjoyed. It upset me so much to write this, but it was worth it.
> 
> I love Draco Malfoy, but this is something I felt needed to happen... so many feels. ;-;

You’re infamous for being the one to make a scene. You’ll admit it’s a fun pastime when nothing else seems like it will quell your ever growing boredom. You make fun of people, you belittle them until they run away crying to their mummies. But then when someone insults or makes you feel powerless, you do the same bloody thing. It just so happens to be a reflex. But it can’t be helped. It’s kind of like flinching when someone aims to hit you.

 

And you’re very skilled in the art of flinching.

 

Today is one of those days you’re pushing people out of your way so you can stand at the back of the line instead of the front. You’re an attention seeker for the lack of attention you receive everywhere else, but today just so happens to be very different. You don’t even want to participate in today’s class, but the professor is grading this activity, and your father would not be happy if he were to hear of your skipping out. Every point counts and you will not be even a half point under the mudblood. It would be ignominy of the highest degree.

 

And so you’re standing at the end of a blissfully long line, your heart pounding with dread as you step closer to the front. You’re being forced into this torture. Really, being forced into torture was the point of torture but that wasn’t the point you’re trying to make. The point you’re trying to make is that you are Draco Malfoy and you shouldn’t have to put up with this rubbish. You are Draco Malfoy and you are a dignified gentleman. You are Draco Malfoy and you aren’t scared of anything.

 

You’re Draco Malfoy and you’re a bloody liar. That’s what you are.

 

It’s pathetic really; you’re hands are shaking and you can’t even look at the Boggart disguised as a wardrobe for longer than five seconds before hastily turning your eyes away. No one notices you because you’re standing at the very end of the line, roughly six feet away from the closest person. Of course your reasoning for this is they smell bad, and if you stood any closer you would retch until something actually came out.

 

You take a few steps forward when the person in front of you moves up, remaining a safe distance away from him. You stand up on your toes a little to see over the people in front of you and count the heads until you get to yourself. Only five more until it’s your turn to face utter humility. Did it even occur to you to just tell Professor Lupin that you refuse to do this activity and he will count you as exempt? Of course it did! But it also occurred to you that it would be a horrible idea, you would get shot down for it, and you would still have to do it anyway. So you would have been stripped of your dignity and still made to endure this torture.

 

You’re not an idiot.

 

Your dread turns into outright fear when the person standing in front of you begins their face-off with their worst fear. You look up at the arched ceiling; at the scratched, dented, and vandalized desks that had been pushed aside for this activity; even at some of the students who were chattering away about how they overcame their fears and forced away the Boggart.

 

“You’re turn, Malfoy.”

 

Your eyes turn to the professor and you nod once. He nods in acknowledgement and the room goes silent, similar to the way it fell silent when that stupid Potter took the stage. You take your wand out and hold it at the ready, poised to make a perfect cast and get out of this assignment as quickly and cleanly as possible.

 

“One—two—three!”

 

Professor Lupin yanks open the doors of the Boggart and steps aside quickly, his eyes focused on you. There is a collective gasp from the students surrounding you. You swallow hard and grip your wand tighter, trying very hard not to turn away from your fear and yell at everyone to keep their filthy mouths shut. But you are, in fact, very frozen in the face of your fear as he takes one step after another, bringing himself closer to you.

 

Your fear has blonde hair, almost white, that drapes over his shoulders in a way that you imagine yours might if you didn’t have it cut every month. His eyes are grey, like stone, and set back into his face. You’d seen pictures of him when he was younger; you were a spitting image of him. His jaw is cut into a sharp angle and set so tightly you can almost hear his teeth grinding against each other. In one hand is his cane, in the other hand is a crystal glass filled to the brim with shimmering brown liquid, and you are _terrified._

 

“What’s the matter, son?” Your fear leans forward slightly with a drunken smirk plastered to his face. “Can’t give your father a hug when he comes home from work?”

 

You don’t speak, knowing that his response will be one from your memories. No matter what you say to him, your father will only respond in the way he did on that night. You open your mouth to cast the spell to get rid of him, confident that you will cast it correctly, but nothing comes out of your mouth. You take an unsteady step backwards and try again, but you still have said nothing. Has the fear encompassed you so entirely?

 

Why does it feel like you can’t breathe anymore?

 

“Draco, cast the spell.”

 

You hear Lupin but his words don’t really make much sense. Your father takes a few stumbling steps towards you, his smirk turning into a sneer he saves for mudbloods and degenerates. You feel your wand slip from your fingers and you fall back against the cold stone floor, your eyes locked on the man in front of you. He leans over you, his eyes even more hollow and bloodshot than before. Your breath comes in short, quiet pants. Your father reaches out and grabs your chin, shaking you so violently you can practically feel your brain smacking against the sides of your head.

 

“You’re a disgrace!” He shouts his breath hot and thick with the smell of whiskey. “You’re a disgusting, loathsome brat who—”

 

“Riddikulus!”

 

You fall back onto the ground, staring into the face of Lupin as he tries to get you to answer him. You blink a few times and then muster up the energy to sneer at him. You reach up, grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him down to your level.

 

“My father will hear about this.”

 

You black out.


End file.
